


Party to the Metaphor

by Ponderosa



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock threw a string of condoms and lube towards Lestrade, who proceeded to sit there with his brow furrowed staring at the condoms dangling from his fingertips as if he had absolutely no clue what a prophylactic was. “What exactly--” Lestrade began, words failing him swiftly. He pulled off his glasses, folding them into his hand as he stood and gave Sherlock a more critical glance. The man was catching on swifter than usual, thank God.</p><p>“Well,” Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely in Lestrade’s direction, “take your clothes off. I haven’t got all day for this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party to the Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> Set during "Ears to You." Simultaneously fulfilled autoschediastic's desire for this scenario and an askbox meme for the dialogue prompt: "It wasn’t supposed to happen like that."

It had begun when Lestrade sat at the woman’s bedside and clasped her hand and stared soulfully at her while his voice softened into a purr. Sherlock had left hastily because frankly it was embarrassing--not only to witness, but in regards to his own sense of self. The ridiculous charade had elicited in him a noticeable sexual response. 

A week and several explosive devices later and Sherlock hadn’t yet been able to either dissect his reaction or to erase the incident from his mind. He lasted a whole twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds beyond the moment Joan left before he shoved his chair back and stood. He tugged down his sleeves and turned on his heel, knowing precisely what was necessary to get this preoccupation out of his head and allow him to return to real work. It wasn’t his first choice, nor his hundred and eighth choice, but it was guaranteed to be effective.

Despite the fact that Sherlock took great care in announcing his approach with exaggerated footfalls, Lestrade started as the door to his borrowed room banged open. He was perched on the cot, hands full of sheafs of paper, reading glasses slid down almost to the point of his nose. He spun halfway around and tossed the papers aside like he’d been caught with a dirty magazine and not a job offer. “Oi, Sherlock, what in the blazes are you doing busting in here like the bloody house is on fire?”

Sherlock threw a string of condoms and lube towards Lestrade, who proceeded to sit there with his brow furrowed staring at the condoms dangling from his fingertips as if he had absolutely no clue what a prophylactic was. “What exactly--” Lestrade began, words failing him swiftly. He pulled off his glasses, folding them into his hand as he stood and gave Sherlock a more critical glance. The man was catching on swifter than usual, thank God.

“Well,” Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely in Lestrade’s direction, “take your clothes off. I haven’t got all day for this.”

“You want to have sex?” Lestrade said it as if it was the most outlandish notion. “With me?”

“Yes, obviously. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it, either, because I know better than that. There was a time in London when you could hardly look at me without needing to excuse yourself to the loo for a quick wank.”

Lestrade grimaced but did neither of them the disservice of denying the fact. “There is no way in hell I’m getting buggered by the likes of you.”

Sherlock fidgeted, trying to shake the excess energy out of his hands; this was taking far too long. “Which is why _you’re_ the one holding the condoms and the lube.”

“Oh,” Lestrade said, and then repeated it again, louder, and the speed at which he went for his belt helped to marginally make up for the delay.

“I’ve taken the liberty of doing a cursory job of readying myself for penetration,” Sherlock informed him. He undid the buttons of his shirt. “However, since I don’t know the precise girth of your cock, I may require further stretching.” He shrugged off his shirt, shaking free of it and found himself pleased at the way Lestrade stared at the line of his chest. Let no one say he did not possess a certain ego of his own when it came to bedroom activities. He yanked off his socks before shoving his trousers down, and bounced lightly on his heels, uncaring that it made his erection wobble ridiculously--erections, and sex in general, were rather ridiculous to begin with. “Joan will be only be out of the house for roughly forty minutes, though I don’t suspect our copulating will last more than ten. Fifteen if we’re lucky.”

Lestrade tugged at the neck of his tee shirt and dragged it over his head. His voice was muffled as the cotton tangled around his head and he snapped, “Well get on the bloody bed then,” before he freed himself and threw the wadded shirt onto the floor near Sherlock’s.

Sherlock huffed, bristling at the insinuation that it was he who was stalling the process, but elsewhere in the house Romulus crowed and Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and refused to be party to the metaphor. He flung himself into the bed and made himself comfortable on his back with his knees bent and spread. “I’ll need to look at you,” he said. “I assume you’re amicable to it given your history. Also I may want to kiss you, though that will be dependent on if the sex is good enough to distract me from the revolting smell of mustard from that sandwich you consumed an hour ago.”

Lestrade waved a dismissive hand. He’d shucked the last of his clothes and was busy rolling on a condom and then being extremely generous with the lube. Sherlock was grateful that he didn’t appear insecure about the relatively average size of his cock, but Sherlock supposed it might have been a balm to the man’s ego to see Sherlock naked and aroused and know that in this case, he wasn’t grotesquely outmatched.

“Fifteen minutes,” Lestrade scoffed, as he knelt between Sherlock’s spread legs. He swiped slick fingers over Sherlock’s hole, tested just how loose Sherlock was by slipping in his pinky and then graduating immediately to the press of two fingers. He was staring, fascinated by the sight of what he had most certainly fantasized about on the regular. “I can promise you I’ll last longer than that,” he murmured.

Miraculously, Sherlock managed to not say _I doubt it,_ aloud. Instead, he reached for Lestrade’s hip to pull him forward until he could feel the brush of the man’s cock near the insistent plunge of his fingers. “I’m ready now,” Sherlock said, clenching and releasing the muscles of his sphincter to prove it. “Apply some more lubrication directly to my anus and then get on with it.”

“Would you at least let me enjoy this moment?”

“No.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes dramatically. “Of course not,” he muttered, but he sounded more awed than bitter as he positioned the head of his cock at the proper angle to push in. His tongue pressed against his lip as he eased forward, fingers helping guide the way as he fucked slowly into Sherlock.

“Raise your hip,” Sherlock instructed. He lifted his own, the springs of the narrow cot squealing beneath the weight of two men as he did so. “Yes, good. Now a touch slower.”

Lestrade did as told, and Sherlock arched keenly beneath him. His cock rubbed between their bellies with a pleasant friction. None of this gave Sherlock a similar thrill as the tingling burst along his nervous system that he’d experienced at the hospital, but that was to be expected; rarely did that particular sort of novelty survive past pursuit, and there was nothing about this awkward attraction that made him desire to draw out the chase.

“Have you no sense of rhythm?” Sherlock wondered aloud. He placed his hands on Lestrade’s face and looked him straight in the eye. He had no intention of allowing Lestrade to let this devolve into emotional messiness of the sort the slight draw in the man’s brow suggested, but neither did he want this to be a purely mechanical encounter. That would defeat the purpose entirely. So he gambled on the likelihood that Lestrade would take a kiss as a challenge as he pushed himself up onto an elbow and fit their mouths together.

The curl of his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth worked like a charm to set the pace as Lestrade unconsciously mirrored each thrusting lick with the roll of his hips and Sherlock found himself reacting appropriately. The slick glide of Lestrade rocking into him very nearly coaxed a moan out of him. “Good, now keep on like that,” Sherlock said, recognizing too late that he should’ve continued to stay silent as Lestrade’s hips stuttered. It was difficult not to fall back into old habits, to recall that Lestrade had always worked best when given a bit of room on the leash and not reminded that he was on the right track--if a step or three behind. His unshaven cheek scraped across Sherlock’s and an annoyed huff of breath warmed Sherlock’s neck.

Lestrade pulled out rather rudely, and he shoved a finger in Sherlock’s face. The muscles of his clenched jaw jumped and his finger quivered, and the sound he forced out between his teeth was somewhere between frustrated and extremely aroused. “On your belly,” he said, shoving forcefully at Sherlock’s knee as he stood.

“I hardly think--”

“Would you _please_ put a sock in it,” Lestrade fairly roared, and he hooked a hand under Sherlock’s leg to haul them off the cot. “Get over or get out.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut with a sharp click and he wrested his limbs free from Lestrade’s clumsy grip. He far preferred the intimacy of being face to face with his partners, unless of course the point was to be blindfolded or otherwise deprived of sight, or if certain activities required him to present his back. When it became clear that Lestrade’s ultimatum was a serious one, he frowned. “Very well, provided that you maintain this new level of vigor,” he said, rolling over onto his knees. “This is far less comfortable.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Lestrade told him. There was the sound of another packet of lube being torn open, and then Lestrade’s hand landed on Sherlock’s backside, slippery from the contents. A half-second later, the cot dipped and another awful wail of springs preceded the nudge of Lestrade’s legs beside his own.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, weight on his forearms and his hands clasped loosely together. “Did you happen to get any of that on your prick, or did you miss entirely?”

“Are you never not talking?” Lestrade lined himself up again, and the penetration this time was far more swift.

“I spent all afternoon without uttering a word.”

“Well let’s get back to that so I can actually enjoy myself,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock found his arm being tugged back, forcing him to flatten out on his chest to remain comfortable. His face was crushed against Lestrade’s pillow, and while he’d known that Lestrade had taken to showering with Joan’s bodywash, it was that much more apparent when each breath came heavy with the smell of lavender.

When Lestrade’s grip loosened from his arm, Sherlock was prepared to lever himself up again, but that hand merely moved to the back of his neck to pin him in place. They had scuffled before and had once spent several months training together in various martial arts, so it was clear to Sherlock that Lestrade was not truly trying to hold him down, but being smothered by the pillow he himself had furnished was not particularly enticing. “Since we’ve proceeded to manhandling, you should know that my safeword is partridgeberry, but if your bedroom proclivities include erotic asphyxia I’ll kindly request that you refrain.”

“I thought we were fucking here--none of that kinky shite,” Lestrade said, though he became noticeably more aware of the placement of his hand on Sherlock’s neck and adjusted his hold remarkably. “But partridgeberry? Like the bird?”

“Partridgeberry as in _Mitchella repens_ , a herbaceous shrub with _bright red berries_. More importantly than educating you on North American plant species, I shall advise you that we are _wasting time,_ and while I’m hardly unprepared for the event that Watson discovers you and I have fornicated, I’d prefer that it not happen today and particularly not _in flagrante_.” Sherlock made the best approximation of a hand wave that he could manage, and added, “Now if you’re done asking me questions, or complaining about my verbal ejaculations, please do get on with the task of fucking me.”

“What do y’bloody well _think_ I’m doing,” Lestrade snapped, and while Sherlock had an exact accounting of the proceedings--or lack thereof--at the ready, he found himself with thankfully little chance to utter them. Lestrade curled forward, a hand bracing on the metal frame of the cot, and a very precise jerk of his hips buried him to the root. His next thrust provided equal enthusiasm and depth, and the satisfaction Sherlock found in the sensation was obviously eclipsed only by Lestrad’s own. A groan spilled into the air, muffled at the last by Lestrade’s mouth meeting Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

To prevent making the same error twice, Sherlock let the pillow take his criticisms, the mish-mash of sound coming across as pure encouragement to Lestrade who proceeded to speed his rutting. It was, Sherlock grudgingly determined, not entirely without its merits, as the fevered pace would eventually be enough to get him off.

“Ahh, atta boy,” Lestrade said, “it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but I found your off switch, didn’t I?” He gritted out a quiet laugh and put a hand to Sherlock’s flank and traced his fingertips up along the line of Sherlock’s side. It was quite ticklish, and somewhat distracting. Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s hand and gripped it hard, fingers held in a knot within his grasp.

“I am most certainly turned on, and intend to stay that way for another two minutes or so,” Sherlock said, and with no better way to keep Lestrade’s wandering hand occupied, he opted to thread their fingers together. Lestrade bucked, and Sherlock reacted out of pure carnal lust, rudely interrupted by his own sharp gasp and his body’s attempt to flatten out and rub his cock more thoroughly against the sheets.

“Oh, I like that,” Lestrade purred, his weight bearing down on Sherlock to ensure that the jackhammer pace he fell into drove Sherlock’s cock into the tangled bedding.

The friction was maddening, and Sherlock fingers in Lestrade’s became a tangled, desperate clutch. He screwed his eyes shut, chasing the blissful promise of orgasm, and if he called out a name when he made a mess upon the sheets, it was purely for Lestrade’s benefit and in honor of all the time they’d once spent in one another’s company.

He ensured Lestrade found a quick end by twisting beneath him, drawing their entwined hand to his mouth and sucking on fingers indiscriminately. A bit theatrical perhaps, but soon it was his name dripping from Lestrade’s lips over and over as the man’s cock pulsed heavily inside of him.

“You’re a pretty damn enthusiastic bed partner once you shut off that brain of yours,” Lestrade remarked. He sounded dazed as he pulled away and sat on the edge of the cot, not yet bothering to strip off the condom hanging heavily between his thighs.

“What about our acquaintance suggested that I would be anything other than entirely passionate about such an encounter?” Sherlock asked, as he rolled carefully onto his side and simultaneously tugged at the linens to avoid the wet spot. “As you well know, I may not engage in sexual activities frequently, however I’m hardly--”

A pillow struck him directly in the face. “There goes the afterglow,” Lestrade muttered.

Clutching the pillow to his chest, Sherlock sat himself upright. He perched close enough to Lestrade that they were lined up hip and shoulder, and he permitted his weight to list slightly against Lestrade. “Part of me regrets that we did not do this earlier,” he said, a flicker of a smile appearing and disappearing as quick as lightning. “Perhaps things would have been different between us.”

He stood before Lestrade could say anything in response. With haste, Sherlock kicked his clothes into a pile and bundled them all into his arms. “I would like to thank you for your charity. I’m certain we’ve all gotten that out of our system now. Please remain assured that my offer for you to remain in the brownstone for as long as you need is not altered by this unexpected occurrence.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, forcing Sherlock to stop just at the threshold. He braced himself for all manner of confessions, but the man simply said, “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded sharply, and he judged that he’d have just enough time for a shower before Joan was due to return. He gave Lestrade a parting glance and did the man the courtesy of closing the door behind him.

In the kitchen, each cock comfortable in their own chair, Romulus and Remus calmly watched him stroll past.


End file.
